


Too Many Cooks

by Angie13



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie13/pseuds/Angie13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gretel is having none of your gender-assigned-duties B.S., thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Many Cooks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedibuttercup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/gifts).



She stared at the various vegetables piled high on the table for a moment and then turned, dainty nose wrinkled, to regard the stolid and painfully unimaginative middle-aged woman who stood beside her. “And just what am I supposed to do with _this_?” she asked. 

It always proved difficult to mask her impatience but she and Hansel knew the importance of avoiding outright antagonization by now. It was too easy for a town to ignore a pair of inconvenient orphans to the point where she and her brother would find themselves left at the gates, abandoned on the wrong side of the wall. As if by accident. Because, of course, no one ever would admit to leaving children to starvation through neglect and forgetfulness. That would be completely inhuman. Witch-like, even.

She forced a smile to her lips. “Ma’am?” she added.

“Cut ‘em up, of course. God’s teeth, girl.” The woman shook her head impatiently. “Don’t you know anything about making stew?”

_No, of course, I don’t. Who would have taught me? I was too young when we left home to have been taught anything useful._

Instead, Gretel smiled all the more sweetly and widened her hazel eyes. “No but my brother does.”

The shocked expression almost made the near-immediate huffing and puffing about a woman’s place in the world worth the lecture. Then again, it had been the absolute truth, too.

Hansel _was_ the better cook.

***

The realization had come as a complete surprise to both of them, really. After all, neither had the least idea about how to start feeding themselves and they were half-starved by the time they stumbled their way through the witch’s forest to find a small, unknown town. They had not packed any of the candy from the house before leaving; the very thought of more sweets caused Hansel to turn green and make fruitless gagging noises into the bushes. They had taken flint and iron, though, and knives and sacking and flasks and a basket to carry it all. So they had not frozen, at least. 

A handful of gold coins also came away with them and a few bought extra good will from the townspeople. A rough but kind innkeeper and his wife offered lodging in the loft above their stable and, while no mention was made of actual apprenticeship or adoption, she and Hansel settled in as well as they could. Neither of them talked about what had happened to them and, without anything more than a look, they also knew they would never talk about _before_ the candy house either.

Without discussing it, they took on odd jobs - fetching and carrying and the like - all while watching and listening and learning. Gretel haunted the grocer and the seamstress and the inn’s front door. Hansel wandered between the blacksmith and the wainwright and the inn’s back door with the kitchen just within, wafting warmth and delicious smells. They whispered things to each other up in the dark loft, comparing notes from the day and making plans. They kept their own counsel almost always. They had learned. Adults could not be trusted - not completely.

They spent the winter in that tiny town, halfway under the innkeeper’s wing, and making themselves just useful enough to have continued use of the loft. The inn keeper’s wife also gifted them with loaves of crusty brown bread once a week and an invitation to curl up in front of their fire on the coldest of nights. Hansel constructed a little hearth of their own with discarded bricks, well away from any hay, and created interesting meals in their one pot to go with the bread. All things considered, they could have been in a worse place. 

Being in a safe place helped, too, when Hansel started to get sick. Strangely sick, intensely sick, and for no apparent reason. It would come on in a rush and he would sweat and his eyes would glaze over and his breath would come short and sharp. It scared her deeply and she had not been scared since that long ago night when she scrabbled at the locks of her manacles with a rusty nail while her brother hollered and scratched at their captor.

Gretel still shuddered when she thought of the uncertainty of that winter and watching Hansel grow pale and weak. The occasional violence of his attacks increased until she had nearly lost her mind. Then, as if she believed in such things, God brought a miracle and a local priest witnessed one of Hansel’s shivering moments and knew the answer. He called it “sugar sickness” and the siblings looked at each other and shuddered with memory. In the end, though, the priest found the right potion to heal her brother. They both learned it, step by painstaking step, until they could recite the process in their sleep.

As thanks, they attended a full month of services and cleaned the dark little church until the single colored glass window lit it all like a jewel. It felt like a debt paid but one that Gretel was very glad to settle. Her brother shone with health and smirks again.

And he learned to make crusty brown loaves of dense bread in a second cast iron pot she scrounged.

*****  
“So what did she say?”

“That I was a willful girl and bound straight away to burn in hell for telling such lies.” Gretel shrugged lazily but still shared a wickedly wry grin with her brother. “And that I should get out of her sight that instant and never come back.”

Hansel threw his head back and laughed, long and loud until he flopped down with a contented sigh on the leaf litter that would serve as their bed that night. “You didn’t!” he accused with another chuckle.

“I did.” She huffed an impatient breath but could not smother the smile caused by Hansel’s reaction. “Why do you think we’re leaving now? I figured we better leave before she rounded up the rest of them and came after me with a flaming torch.”

“And me, too, even though I didn’t do anything.” Hansel turned his head to smile at her from his prone position. “Story of our lives.”

Gretel stuck out her tongue but abruptly turned and threw herself down beside him. “You know we’re just wasting time, don’t you?” she said quietly after a moment. “We don’t really want that kind of life. I don’t want to serve drunks at an inn and you don’t want to slave away in a forge.” She paused, weighing her words, and then added the final nail to her argument, “And the next town is going to look at me and, I’m sure, start telling me I ought to be married and popping out screaming babies because, God in heaven, I’m about to be thirteen and time is wasting.”

He stared up at the leaves above them in silence for long moments and she let him be. She knew he was thinking. He had the funny little crease between his eyebrows that signaled intense concentration. Finally, he grunted and rolled over to face her. “You’d make a lousy wife.” A slow smile curled his mouth. “You can’t cook.”

“Why. you!” Voice shrill with laughter, she rolled over top of him to pummel him with her fists. “That’s not fair!” He allowed her to win for a few moments and then, with a snort, Hansel grabbed her wrists. Using his weight advantage and burgeoning strength from hours with a hammer and forge, he shoved her to one side and pinned her. She scowled. “You’re no fair,” she muttered sulkily.

“Nope, not at all.” He grinned and moved back to allow her freedom once more. She sat up and huffed. “But you’re right.”

Gretel looked at him in clear surprise, thin eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry. Did you just say I was right?”

“Shut up.” He tossed a handful of leaves into her hair and stood, stretching. “That’s not the life we want.” He moved to the space he had cleared earlier and began adjusting the rough stone ring there. Then he carefully, methodically built the start of a fire. Small twigs, bits of leaf and dead moss, a spark from flint. Once he had added a few thicker sticks and had the fire going, Hansel looked over his shoulder once more and gave her his funny little half-smile. “We’re not like them,” he said. “We’ll never be like them. We’ve seen something so awful that they can’t even imagine it. We should use that.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Are you saying..?” She trailed off, not quite sure if what she hoped he meant was what he actually meant.

“Sure.” He reached for his pack and tugged their two precious pots free. He tossed one to her and she caught it reflexively. “Can you get some water?” She nodded and stood. “And then we’ll figure out how we can kill as many of those fuckin’ witches as possible.”

Gretel’s smile lit her face. “That’s more like it, brother dear!” Turning on her heel, she added, “Make sure you cook something good in honor of this big decision.”

*****

Years later, many towns and witches later, Hansel still was the better cook and neither of them gave one damn who knew it. 

Sprawled across her sleeping blankets, Gretel hummed tunelessly as she rubbed grease into the delicate metal workings and oil along the smooth wooden stocks of their guns. Every once in a while, she would look up to check on her brother and his progress over the series of three pots he had arranged over and beside their steady fire. Finally, she set down the last gun and rolled onto her stomach. She propped her elbows on the ground, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on them. “So what are you making?”

“Not sure yet.” Hansel kept his eyes on the center pot, stirring from time to time. “We need more flour, by the way.”

That caused her to stiffen her lazy posture. “No bread?” His campfire bread was her favorite trick. 

He snorted to cover his laugh at her dismay. “Last loaf until we get some flour. Don’t worry. You can stuff your face tonight.”

“Jerk.” She relaxed again. “So what do you mean by ‘not sure yet’ then?”

“It’s stew. You never know what it’s going to do.” He turned to retrieve a handful of marrow peas, a pinch of their precious salt, and various other things that left Gretel in the dark. For all she knew, he was dropping nightshade and wormwood into their dinner. She watched as he stirred and tasted and added another thing that looked like a dead leaf. He felt her eyes on him but said nothing until he finally nodded to himself and pulled the pot from atop the fire. “It’s not bad,” he announced. “There’s some venison in there with the potatoes and stuff. Bit of the salt pork, too.”

She felt saliva rise to her mouth. Now that he had moved the pot, the smells within drifted to her and her stomach gave a rumble of anticipation. Quickly, she scrambled to her knees and crawled over to join him on the fallen log destined to serve as their seat for the evening. With effort, she waited until he tipped the loaf of bread from one of the other cast iron pots and brought it to her. The heat of it stung her palms and she dropped it to her lap. A quick grab earned her a towel, though, and she rearranged the crusty loaf atop it before holding out her hand for one of the knives Hansel brought from their kit. “I’ll cut,” she announced.

He shrugged but a trace of smirk lingered at the corners of his mouth. He waited until she had cut the round loaf in half, hollowed some of the soft interior and packed it down, before he ladled generous spoonfuls of the thick stew into each offered make-shift bowl. “Pushy, pushy,” he muttered.

“And you’re still feeding me.” She grinned, bright as sunshine. Once he sat, she handed him one of the half-loaves with its fragrant cargo. Then she bent over her own and inhaled deeply. “Mmm, it smells great. You know, Hansel… You’ll make someone a great wife some day.”

She counted herself lucky that he valued food more than getting even with her for the comment. It meant all he did was snort, roll his eyes, and begin eating. She smiled again, more gently and just to herself. It was easily hid as she brought her bread-bowl to her lips. Yes, indeed. Hansel was the better cook and the old town-wives who thought that made a difference could go burn.

With jealousy, probably, because… _Damn_ , he made good stew.


End file.
